


Heal

by Parichan



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Coming Out, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9229544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parichan/pseuds/Parichan
Summary: “Sometimes, when I sleep,” Daryl starts, after a long pause. “When I blink? I see him.” The piece of torn fabric he’s been toying with tears again between his fingers. Beneath long strands of hair his eyes look troubled. “He just won't go away.”-Set just after his escape from the Sanctuary, Daryl tries to reconcile himself with his past.*CONTAINS FLASHBACKS TO NEGAN NON-CON*Updates every couple of days <3





	1. Post-Acute

He doesn’t stop eating for hours. For times of apparent scarcity there seemed almost _too much_ food, too wide a selection, though he suspects between mouthfuls of canned peaches that his up-to-then diet of dog-food sandwiches would make even the smallest offerings look like a feast. He rips through can after can of _whatever_ , guzzles down the entire jug of instant lemonade in front of him, feeling more and more like himself with every morsel. He’s guttural, and surely not a pretty sight for onlookers as he scoffs down his servings with primitive vigour and complete disregard for mess. He’s halfway through a box of stale pop-tarts when a stubborn ray of orange sunlight, reflected into his left eye off the vacant TV-screen, finally causes him to raise his head from the table- and realise with perplexity that it’s sundown. As if woken from a stupor, he suddenly notices the lack of voices coming from outside the house. The murmur of conversation, the background noise that had filtered through the windows when he’d first taken his seat at the table, was now disturbingly absent.

He’s up from the table before he knows it, dimly registering the splitting _slap_ of his chair falling backwards onto the wooden floor. His hands grope wildly at an invisible crossbow, then fumble for an invisible gun and knife in empty pockets. His heart drums in his chest, in his ears, and his eyes dart between the room’s every crevice. Defenceless, he instinctively enters stealth mode, edging around the large oak table and flattening himself against the wall beside the living room doorway. Then there are footsteps, heavy ones- _male_ \- coming up to the front door and he feels his fingers tighten around the butter knife he’d grabbed from the table. There is no thought process. There’s only the sound of the door _clicking_ open and boots on the landing, and-

“Don’t,” he hears himself warn, in a voice that sounds too hoarse even for him. For a second all he registers is heavy breathing, his own and someone else’s, and the adrenaline soaring back through his veins like a returning guest. The lack of movement makes him blink, look down, and he realises modicum by modicum that there’s a throat beneath his forearm, a torso against his torso, an arm pinned to the wall by his free hand. There’s a pair of eyes that stare back at him in surprise, before flitting down to the floor.

“Daryl,” comes an apologetic voice. “It’s me.” 

But Daryl knows who it is now, and jumps back from the grip as recognition floods his brain. 

“I told them it had to be me,” Rick says, adjusting himself and leaning down slowly to pick up the bags he’d dropped. “I should have knocked, announced myself. I’m sorry.” 

“S’fine,” Daryl says, shaking his head a little. “I… Didn’t mean to-” his nods at the wall-space where he’d pinned Rick. 

“Oh, you didn’t?” Rick humours, smile edging the corners of his mouth as he places the bags on the counter. “That’s a relief. Too bad there’s only another couple-hundred trying.”

Daryl’s ‘laugh’ lifts the corners of his mouth. Rick's expression quickly returns to concern.

"You're safe here," Rick says, and it trips him out how confident he can sound, even now. "You know that."  Daryl huffs.  Despite the- obvious- risks, though, Daryl  _does know_ that he's somewhat safe. If he was thinking logically, clearly, he'd have remembered that Rick _told him_ twenty-minutes prior to his re-entry exactly where he'd be going; roughly when he'd be back. But it had been one of those moments, one where his brain stopped and the only thing left in charge was primal instinct. Moments like those kept him alive. They're the reason he's here, and not dead, not undead, or worse- Rick raises an eyebrow. "Don't give me that look."

"What's in the bag?" He enquires, approaching the counter. “If it's more food I think I’ve had enough.”

“Damn near cleaned us out, yeah,” Rick says, but his tone is light. He pulls a clean shirt from the bag. “Shower first, will you?” Daryl snatches it out of his hand.

“What is it with you people telling me to shower?” he protests. “Just got this one, anyway,” he says, picking the fabric of his grey shirt.

“Most people have more than one.”

Daryl gives Rick a look, something between gratitude and disregard, and moves over to the other side of the room to perch on the window-sill. Outside, the darkening pavements are deserted. In the rare, relatively-peaceful moments, these sunset-basked streets had hosted tender exchanges of days, cigarettes on porches, kids milking the last drops of sunlight to play with interesting salvage picked up on runs. At the distant perimeter of the western wall, he catches dots of flame tracing around the boundary. 

“I’ll go on watch,” he says, jerking upright. He tries to hide the wince as his ribs sting in protest. Instinctively reaching for his phantom weapons, he grimaces when he realises again that they’re gone. “Still no weapons?”

No answer. When he turns to look at Rick he finds a set of blues staring right back at him. It’s not a challenge, or a plea. It’s just a stare, and it makes Daryl shrink a little under its spotlight. He’s never been able to hold Rick’s gaze for long.

“Sorry,” Rick says, finally, breaking the silence and the eye contact and swallowing the wad in his throat. “Just- sorry.”

“When’d’you start apologising so much?” Daryl asks, meaning to undercut the sudden thickness in the room, but they can both pin-point the exact moment the apologies started, and picturing it makes Daryl’s chest burn, stomach swirl. Rick blinks, looks down and nods.

“I should’ve come,” he says, voice weak. “Should’ve been _me_ , not Carl, not Jesus.” He averts his gaze to the window, now refusing to meet Daryl’s eye. They’re glazed, wet, tinged orange as they fix themselves on the Alexandria streets. “I just… wasn’t _myself_ , I-” He forces himself to look at Daryl. “I let you down.”

“Shut up,” Daryl says, because he can feel the sudden thickness in his throat and there’s no way he’s crying now, not in his fresh clothes and his spacious house, surrounded by his people. Not after that damned good meal. “You couldn’t. I know you couldn’t. Not just then.”

“But I _could’ve_ , that’s the thing.” Rick says, mouths as his voice fails him, imploring Daryl for forgiveness with wide eyes. “I just _didn’t_. I was gonna… was gonna give _him_ everything. Half of everything- more. I thought it was the only way, the only way we’d keep our lives. All of us.” He shakes his head, eyes troubled. “I was _scared_. Terrified. Tell you the truth I still am.” 

“Yeah,” Daryl says, trying to keep his mind from flashing back to the Sanctuary. _God, what a name._ “I am too.” His stomach churns, and he’s not sure whether its hot with fury, or sludgy with dead recollection. 

“When you’re ready,” Rick starts, stepping a stride closer. Daryl looks up at him. “If you’re ever ready, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m… I’m _here-_ ”

"Think I'm done talking," Daryl cuts, lowering his head a little in apology as Rick runs a worried hand through his hair. "I just wanna get this done. Let's just... Get this done."

 

*


	2. Matter Over Mind

Negan _._

_Negan, Negan, Negan, Negan-_

There’s nowhere Daryl can go without hearing his name. In strategy meetings, hardly a sentence goes by without it. In the streets, it’s breathed in hushed tones by cautious bystanders. Every now and again it’s hurled in a strained voice from an angry mouth, shouted with curses like spillover from a boil. And then when Daryl sleeps it’s there again, a record playing on repeat in his dreams like the one in his cell. It’s spoken shakily by a prisoner, resignedly by one of his wives, affirmatively by a Saviour clutching the name like a rosary. And with every utterance in the waking or sleeping world, his stomach churns. His forehead beads with sweat. His throat dries like parchment. The memories- 

So he _moves_ , instead. He hunts in the forest, scavenges in it, kills walkers for sport. He takes unnecessarily long routes, routes he’ll need to trek uphill for miles to get home from. Because it’s the straining of sinew, the ache and burn of his spent muscles, the hard breaths and the hard pulse and the sweet, exhausted emptiness in his head that keep him sane. The soreness, the blisters, the burn- they’re self inflicted. He’s in control, when he moves. This sweat didn’t come from fear. 

It’s bright in the forest today, bright white with the rising sun. The _snap_ of twigs under his boots is heavy in his ears. He’d snuck out at god-knows-when in the middle of the night, caught between lying awake with his memories and dreams of the Sanctuary. He looks like utter shit, hasn’t slept longer than an hour or so continuously since his return. His body struggles to move as he climbs uphill, begs him for rest with every reluctant step. He’d seen an abandoned pick-up on a run, before his- his _capture_ \- and from what he remembers it was loaded with cans and ripe for pillage. 

_Somewhere around here_ , he muses to himself, hand on the dagger he’d looted from a corpse. He peers around a small clearing as he emerges from the thickest part of the forest. _Somewhere-_

But the sudden sound of a revving engine snaps his head around, echoing through the waking forest like an alarm bell. He’s running, running before he decides to run, towards the sound which isn’t far away, two-hundred metres, eighty- _there._

He spots it as it begins to pull away, twitching for his crossbow again to fire a bolt through the back window- a warning. But he doesn’t have his bow, and his muscles scream in protest as he picks up the pace and flies over the forest floor, hurtling past nettles that’ll doubtless scar. He’ll surely pay the price for this sprint, later when he can’t move for stiffness, but right now his mind is consumed by this immediate destination, by this run, by this miniature mission, and he relishes the singularity of his thoughts despite the agonising fatigue. 

But the truck slows to a halt as he approaches, as if _waiting_ for him to traverse the final stretches. It throws him off, and when he reaches it finally, hands placed firm on the bonnet, his eyes peer cautiously into the driver’s seat. 

“We really gonna do this again?” comes a familiar voice, muffled through the glass. Daryl’s eyes roam over the driver, and he becomes suddenly aware of his breathing, sharp and ragged, as the adrenaline courses through his bloodstream. He retracts his hands from the bonnet; his hand loosens- slightly- around the dagger. Jesus climbs out of the truck.  “Can’t afford to sink this one.” 

His eyes, somehow even brighter in the sunlit forest, flicker with interest.

“Why’re you here?” Daryl asks, affronted. This was _his_ space _, his distraction_. Jesus leans an elbow onto the side of the truck, maintaining his gaze. 

“Does it matter?” he asks in return, and his expression is annoyingly _knowing_. His eyes flit down, and a frown breaks across his face as he surveys Daryl’s body. “What happened? Your clothes-”

“It matters,” Daryl affirms, resisting the urge to look down at himself as Jesus’ brow furrows with concern. “This was my truck.” 

Jesus looks up, quirks a brow and laughs lightly, and despite Daryl knowing how childish he sounds his hands clench again instinctively. “Something funny?” He probes, feeling himself hot up with irritation. Jesus looks back at him, incredulous. 

“You know we’re on the same side, right?” Jesus tries. Daryl maintains his silence. “I was bringing this back for _us._ ” 

Daryl edges back a little. He’d expected confrontation, and it shows in his body language that he’s unsure how to react to this turn of events. His hand, clutching the dagger still, hovers over his holster. His shoulders are up, but he’s backing away from the truck. He’d come for a fight, for a chase. He’s agitated. He doesn’t feel satisfied. Jesus looks intrigued, but mostly concerned, and the look in his dumb eyes pisses Daryl off even more. So he turns around, turns away from them, and makes for the thick of the forest-

“Stop,” Jesus says, and Daryl knows _exactly_ how to react to the sudden grip on his shoulder. He jolts around and pushes, _hard,_ so Jesus staggers back a foot or so. 

“Back _off_ -”

“No,” Jesus says, firm, and Daryl’s eyes narrow. “Have you seen yourself?" His worried eyes rake over Daryl's arms, which Daryl now notices to be littered with little, open scars. "You're more thorn than skin." Jesus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clean rag. "Use it."

Daryl glares from the cloth to Jesus' face, but refuses to take the offering. Jesus sighs.

"You’re not going back in there,” he continues. "I won't let you." Daryl closes the distance, shoulders raised.

“You gonna stop me?” He asks, with more than a hint of threat. Jesus doesn't back away. “You wanna try?” He can feel his defences rising with his voice; his blood curls hot in his gut as he stares Jesus down. That distant, reasonable part of him, buried somewhere in the background, must be aware of how crazy he seems- must be aware that just two days ago they’d escaped the Sanctuary _together_. 

“I am,” Jesus says, after a time. He keeps his gaze on Daryl’s glare. His hand reaches, slowly, slowly, for Daryl’s fist. “You’re not gonna hurt me,” he says, and the edge flickers out of Daryl’s eyes for a moment. Daryl’s hand convulses at the eventual skin-to-skin contact, every joint jolts, and he doesn’t know _why_ but he keeps it still, _loosens_ his grip on the dagger, as Jesus eases it from him. He blinks, turns his head away, as Jesus sheathes the knife back into his holster. “Come home.” 

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning to maintain daily updates/ every couple days <3  
> Thanks so much for the support! <3


	3. Liquor at the Sanctuary

“You really think I’d poison you?” comes Negan’s drawl, eyes twinkling as he swirls the scotch in his ornate tumbler. His dimples deepen as he smiles against the rim of the glass. He swigs it down. Then he leans forward- a little _too_ forward- to grab the bottle. Daryl tries to sink back further in the armchair, and finds that he can’t. The leathery crinkle of Negan’s jacket as he moves, and the thick g _lug_ of scotch, are the only sounds in the room besides their breathing. “After everything, you think I’d off you just like that?” he continues. Daryl stays silent. Negan takes deep breath through his nose, leans closer still, screws his eyes and searches Daryl’s. They flit over his bruises, down to his lips, before lifting back up to his eyes. Then he leans back, sighing, downs the amber liquid in his glass and refills it immediately with the bottle in hand. “I’m gonna need you to speak.” He stares, persistent, until Daryl fidgets in his chair.

“I don’t drink,” Daryl says, and after spending so long silent his voice cracks over the first few syllables. Negan’s smile widens as he pours himself an nth glass. 

“Hayseed like yourself?” he asks, in disbelief. Daryl’s eyes narrow, and Negan only seems to find it amusing. “Thought you boys breathed moonshine.” He laughs a little. “Well, anyway…” he says, leaning forwards again to lean the neck of the bottle over Daryl’s glass. “You do now.” 

Daryl swallows the thickness in his throat as Negan nods at his now-full glass. Then he reaches for it, he has no choice, gingerly holding it by its rim as he brings it closer. Its overwhelming smell, invading his senses like an unwelcome guest, makes him recoil.

“That glass, there?” Negan starts, pointing at the glass and very obviously deriving entertainment from his discomfort. “It won’t hurt you. You do know that, right?” Sarcasm drips from his voice; the twinkle in his eyes intensifies. Daryl peers down at the liquid, which rocks as he swirls it from side to side. 

“Me, on the other hand? Well,” he moves his head side to side in consideration. “I might. If you don’t hurry up.” Daryl breaths quicken, but after a moment or two of total silence a big smile suddenly breaks across Negan’s face. He laughs and swigs down another of his own servings. His eyes ponder Daryl’s face. “That there, Mr. Dixon? Was a _joke_.”

The corner of Daryl’s mouth edges up in a ‘smile’. He turns away from the glass, takes a long breath through his nose, and downs the drink as quickly as he can. It burns in his throat, burns as it travels down to his chest, where he can _feel it_ blooming out into his bloodstream. He tries not to, but his face scrunches up a little in disgust. 

“Woah-ho!” Negan exclaims, slapping his own thigh. “All in one. See?” He maintains their eye contact. “Knew you had it in you.” Daryl shuffles under the intense scrutiny of the gaze. Then Negan smiles, makes a smug sound of acknowledgement, and refills Daryl’s glass. Daryl looks down at it in dread. After almost a year of sobriety, and on a nearly-always empty stomach, the alcohol is already coursing through his system. His body, his head, start to feel light. But his stomach is heavy like stone. Negan leans back into his chair.

“Go on.”

It’s only when he’s got the glass in hand again that he notices it: he’s shaking. Negan’s looking at his trembling fingers, and the realisation quickly dawns on him that he’d rather be anywhere- _anywhere_ _-_ but here. In his shitty cell. In the walker yard. Anywhere but here, squirming under Negan’s microscope.

But then it’s five- six?- shots later, and Daryl’s body feels disconnected. The immaculate bedroom sways around him; his muscles feel like jelly. His eyes are hazed with detachment. But Negan? Negan seems unaffected, and is he standing? He’s standing, and coming closer, moving around the coffee table. Suddenly he’s _there_ , right in front of him with his crotch the only thing at eye-level, and Daryl starts to really panic as he determinedly stares down at his lap. Negan wouldn’t- _couldn’t_ ask him to do this-

But then Negan crouches down in front of him, takes his chin in one hand holds it up, firm. They’re _too close_ , Negan’s eyes are too close, scanning his face like an x-ray _,_ and Daryl can feel his every breath warming his lips. Blood rushes to his face. He tries to turn his head away, but Negan forces him back. 

“Baby,” he rumbles, all silk and gravel. “You need to learn to _take_ it.” 

The hand on his chin extends up to his cheeks, holding his face still in place. Negan leans his lips onto Daryl’s, humming as he assuredly coaxes them into movement. The rumbling, sinful sound vibrates into Daryl’s mouth, which he can’t seem to close shut. He’s on fire. He must be- it’s the only explanation. Somewhere in the background is the disgust, the shame, the feeling that he _doesn’t want this_. Somewhere behind the curtains of liquor there’s a stagehand yelling cut. But Negan’s tongue is wetting Daryl’s bottom lip, his teeth are tugging and nipping at the flesh, and there’s a humid cloud coating his loose limbs. Negan sighs into him and pushes hot against his mouth, into the smoulder of the kiss. It’s all searing pressure, with Negan’s confident tongue melting into his mouth like butter; with the scratch of his peppered beard. The only sound in the room is wetness, and Negan’s occasional murmurs of satisfaction. Daryl doesn’t- can’t- move away, loose with the alcohol and under Negan’s grip, and not quite sure where he is with all the rolling heat in his abdomen. 

“My, my…” Negan breathes, laughing lightly and pulling away, keeping his eyes on Daryl’s lips. He flits them down to his lap, and Daryl squirms in his seat. “Easy there.” 

He presses his palm flush into Daryl’s crotch, and Daryl’s not sure _what_ sound he makes- something between a gasp and a whimper. Whatever it is, it seems to amuse Negan, because he presses harder into the bulge, wraps his fingers around Daryl’s cock through the loose jeans he’d been given. His head feels like a mixer, clotting up steam, and a reluctant groan rips from his throat when Negan presses a thumb to the head of his cock.

“You are _dirty_ ,” Negan says, teetering between awe and distaste. Daryl floods with embarrassment. Negan laughs and it’s a cruel sound, a taunting one, that seems to reiterate the _distance_ between them despite the physical intimacy. Then he hoists himself up to his feet, dusts his thighs, and pats a patronising hand to Daryl’s flushed cheek. He leans down again to drip a whisper into Daryl’s ear.

“Next time you kneel,” he says, and whistles on his way out.

 

*


	4. Frosting

“Then I slipped him.” 

Rick pauses, hammer mid-air, then continues to nail a plank of wood over the infirmary windows. Once it’s fully secured he stops, and lets the hammer fall by his side. Sweat gleams off every inch of his skin; his clothes stick, damp, to shoulders which heave with laboured breaths. He turns fully to face Daryl.

“You _what_?” His bright eyes narrow as they scrutinise Daryl, who’s suddenly having a hard time feeling justified. Rick scratches his head, looks down, and breathes deep through his nose as if trying to keep himself under control. Then he turns accusatory eyes back up to Daryl. “He’s-” Rick pauses, clears his throat. “He’s by himself?” his voice is low; measured. 

Daryl adjusts his hold around the pile of wooden planks in his arms. Feeling distinctly ruffled by Rick’s continuous glare, he grabs the hammer from Rick’s hands, sets the pile down, and carefully lines up another plank over the window. 

“ _Daryl,_ ” Rick says, voice deadly now as Daryl starts knocking away at the first nail. Even in his peripherals, Rick’s stern gaze feels frontal. Eventually, when Daryl doesn’t let up and reaches for another plank, he hears Rick sigh, mumble something suspiciously like “ _Christ_ ”, and march off in the direction of the front gate. Daryl waits for him to disappear around the corner, checking with side-glances as he continues hammering. Then he lowers the tools, and swallows the sudden guilty lump in his throat. He shouldn’t feel bad. Jesus knocked people on their asses for fun- had damn-near done so to him _and_ Rick not a month ago. He was fine getting back on his own. Just _fine, and_ he had the pick-up that Daryl had so generously left behind. He’d gone out by himself that day he stole the truck from them, hadn’t he, and he’d come back alive from that. So why did Daryl feel like a truant, smarting from a thoroughly well-deserved telling off? He tosses the hammer to the ground, where it _clacks_ disjointedly off the pavement slabs. There hadn’t been any unusual signs of risk in the forest, it had been god-damn _empty._ He hadn’t seen a single walker. Which, now that he thinks about it, is… well… A thick, syrupy swirl of dread settles in his gut. _Why_ hadn’t there been a single one? He gulps down the ever-growing lump in his throat as his legs start carrying him to the gate, pacing to a jog, before he’s even fully processed the idea that _someone else was probably out there with them._

When he reaches the gate, his eyes dart around trying to spot that dumb winter mane and beard in a now-swimming set of faces. He lingers a couple of yards away from Rick, watching as Sasha gesticulates with her machine gun, presumably filling him in. 

_Stop being such a pussy_ , he says to himself, walking purposefully over to them. Sasha’s eyes look concerned as they spot him. 

“Daryl-”

“S’he here?” Daryl interjects immediately. Sasha looks taken aback for a moment, before she plants her feet and looks at him, worry somewhat less evident in her gaze. It’s probably the heat playing tricks on him, but he thinks- is she… he thinks he sees a _smirk_ playing at the corners of her mouth. She cocks her head. 

“What do you care?” she asks, blunt, and Daryl instinctively steps back a little. He blanks. He looks at Rick, who’s looking back at him expectantly. His eyes shift between them, as if trying (and failing) to calculate the most appropriate response. 

“I don’t,” he says, and mentally kicks himself. Sasha rolls her eyes; Rick sighs. There’s something about the blazing sun and the irritation and this sudden feeling of _expectation_ , because that hot twisty feeling he’d felt in the woods stirs up again. “Is he here or not?” he says, and it must have been loud because Maggie and Eugene pause mid-conversation to look over. He keeps his gaze on Sasha. She _tsks_ and looks at Rick, who tries to avert his gaze as much as possible. Then she shakes her head- _no-_ _turns away_ -

“You tell me where he is _-_ ” Daryl protests, before he knows it, grabbing Sasha’s trailing forearm. She snaps it away from him as if recoiling from a burn, spinning round, and Daryl, suddenly coming to his senses, immediately flashes his hands up in surrender. 

“You _don’t_ ,” she starts, raw. Daryl keeps his eyes on the floor. “You _don’t do that._ Ever.” She lets the words hang for a moment or ten, as Daryl’s chest burns with shame. Then she turns back around, slowly, and climbs up the ladder to the raised watch-floor. To their right, Maggie and Eugene tentatively resume their conversation; Rick comes over and lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“He’s in the food hold,” Rick says, and Daryl blinks. “She told me. Just before you- got here.” 

Daryl just stares, somewhat numb, as the relief washes over him in the background. He’ll smooth it out with Sasha, he knows that, but a remaining shred- or five- of guilt lodge themselves in his stomach. Rick places both hands on Daryl’s shoulders, facing him directly. 

“Hey,” he says, staring until Daryl eventually lifts his gaze to look at him. His eyes are sympathetic, imploring, as they flick over his face. “I need you to know you're _safe now_.” There it was again, that damn confidence, and maybe Daryl just feels like making enemies today because his eyes narrow.

“Yeah,” he starts, shrugging the hands off his shoulders. “Maybe you ought’ta stop telling yourself that.” There’s a beat, and he only sees Rick’s wounded eyes for a moment, because he turns immediately and makes his way for the hold. 

 

————

 

“You think it’ll keep if we- uh-” Jesus pauses mid-sentence as Daryl emerges at the garage entrance. Carol turns from the shelves to face the interruption. 

“Jeez, what’s up with you?” she asks Daryl, laughing a little in good humour. He only notices now that he’s breathing hard- had he fucking run here? Carol swivels her head between them, intrigued, as neither of them say a word. “O- _kay,_ ” she lilts, placing the can in her hand on the shelf. “It’ll keep,” she says to Jesus. “Just, you know, keep it sealed…” her eyes narrow in curiosity as Jesus doesn’t respond, or even look at her. She continues to look back and forth between them, and then slowly backs out of the room. Daryl gives her a nod of assurance on her way out.

“Hey,” Daryl says, stepping into the cool garage. Jesus just keeps looking at him, and Daryl fidgets nervously with his fingers as he leans against the shelf. 

“Hey,” Jesus says back. “You, uh… been running?” he asks, and Daryl feels the question reverberate in his head for longer than it really should.

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick. Subconsciously, his fingers run rings around the curved rim of a can. 

“If you remember, there was a vehicle available,” Jesus teases, but his eyes don’t twinkle as much this time. “Would’ve saved you the jog-”

“M'sorry,” Daryl blurts, and Jesus looks genuinely taken aback for a moment. “For- pushing you.” Jesus huffs, and smiles, but his eyes sort of _glaze_ again as he turns his attention to the large crate of cans at his feet. 

“You’re not that tough,” he says, as he begins unloading it onto the shelves. Daryl watches, then leans down and reaches into the crate himself. Jesus pauses for a moment to look at him.

“What?” Daryl asks. “It’s my haul.” He starts stacking, Jesus laughs a little, and its somehow the best Daryl’s felt all day. 

“Finders keepers,” Jesus says. “And I did find it. Early bird gets the- cans?” he tries. Daryl scoffs, raising an eyebrow.

“There a box of bumper stickers in here, too?” he asks. Jesus laughs again.

“Nothing wrong with a little cliche,” he says, perusing the crate. Daryl ‘ _hmph_ ’s in scepticism. Jesus pauses, eyeing up what looks like a tub of frosting. His whole face lights up with a smile, and Daryl almost has to blink. “Look at that, see? Finders keepers.”

“Whatever,” Daryl says, forcing himself to look away. “Shouldn’t that go to the kids? At the Hilltop?”

“At the Hilltop?” Jesus asks, looking up from his find in disbelief. “You’re not warming to strangers, are you?”

Daryl sends him a glare. 

“Guess not,” Jesus says, crouching to set the tub beside the crate, next to a handful of other items. Daryl’s eyes narrow, and Jesus rolls his eyes. “You think I’d steal in front of you?”

“Not if you value your life,” Daryl says, but without any real intent. Jesus holds his hands up in mock-surrender, and Daryl huffs. 

“Rick wants us to do a dinner. All of us. That’s why Carol was here. It’ll be more of a- a party, really. He just didn’t want to call it that.”

“What, I don’t get a say?” Daryl asks, examining a particularly suspicious jar of pickles. 

“You _want_ a say?” Jesus asks, raising an eyebrow. He gets back up to his feet. “I didn’t think you’d even come.”

Daryl huffs again.

They keep stacking until the crate is almost empty, quiet in the cool shade. Daryl finds it calming- the rhythm, the simplicity- and he can feel his guard dropping, his mind clocking off paranoia, can by box by bottle. When the crate is finally clear, Jesus leans against the near-full shelf and faces Daryl.

“I know you don’t trust me,” he starts, imploring him with those _damn eyes_ , and Daryl can’t help but stir a little with regret. “But can you try?” 

For the first time since he’d entered, they look straight at each-other. Daryl’s breath catches in his throat, and it feels a little warmer in the garage despite the first drops of sunset falling outside. His stomach fizzes, like how he remembers a fresh soda would, and everything is a little too close for comfort. He blinks and averts his gaze, clearing his throat. Then, for some reason, because he’d turned and was on his way out- he stops in the doorway. 

“There better be cake at this party.”

Jesus pauses for a moment, then laughs.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out keeping a daily schedule is gonna be impossible (uni's a bitch). Hope you guys enjoyed ^_^ <3


	5. Grow From This

“Don’t cry,” Merle whispers, seethes, clenching his fists until his knuckles blanch white. His voice is almost wet-hot with anger, it rattles from his throat, but he keeps it deadly quiet. He presses his eargingerly against the bedroom door, the only thing separating _them_ from _him_ , a paltry strip of wood between their shaking breaths and his heavy footsteps. “Not ’til the lights go out. Alright?” 

Daryl nods. His heart thrums in his chest like a tiny, whirring hummingbird. His insides are cold with dread. They hold their breaths as shadows appear under the crack of the doorway; Merle’s nails cut eight little crescent-shaped wounds into his palms, which bead with blood. Fear soaks into Daryl’s bones and turns his blood to tar. After a stretch of aching suspense, which is in reality probably no longer than a few seconds, the shadows pass. The tracts of tear residue on Daryl’s cheeks bluster with cold as gust blows through the open bedroom window. He covers Merle’s hand with his own, a fraction of the size, and squeezes. In the hallway, the distinct sound of a bottle slamming down on a hard surface splits the pregnant silence, and they both jolt. 

“Please stay,” Daryl begs, barely a whisper, and the suddenly warm streaks on his skin tell him he’s crying again. He places his other hand on Merle’s large, calloused one, holding it tight with both. “ _Please_ , Merle.” 

Merle looks at him, pained, and swallows the lump in his throat. He looks down at the hand Daryl’s clutching. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but the words catch in his throat. Nine years older than Daryl, Merle’s double the size. His time in juvy has filled out his shoulders with muscle; the scars have hardened him. But it’s the look in his eyes that says it clearer than anything else: Merle’s not a victim anymore. But Daryl’s small, small even for his age, and not strong or brave like Merle is. He’s a coward, a crier, and definitely no match for Dad. Suddenly queasy, he squeezes tighter onto Merle’s hand, like a ship swaying precariously on an anchor. He implores Merle with wide eyes, until, strangely tender, Merle lifts his free hand and strokes the hair out of Daryl’s face.

They flinch again when they hear the bathroom door slam shut, and Merle’s hand retracts immediately, as if stung. He presses his ear back against the crack in the door, and _thank God, thank God-_ they can _breathe_ again, as the sound of the running shower starts to patter in the distance. Merle’s up on his feet straight away, pulling a duffle bag from the closet and hurling it onto the bed. 

“Merle, _please_ ,” Daryl tries again, scrambling to his feet. His voice cracks as more tears break. “Just- just tell me why _-_ ”

“Stop _crying_ , damn it,” Merle snaps, throwing every nearby garment into the bag. He reaches under his bed for the cash he’d been hiding, and throws the wad in with some old magazines. “You gotta be tough now.” 

“You can’t do this,” Daryl protests, desperate. “You can’t just leave me here!”

“Sure as hell can’t take you with me,” Merle says, scooping up the set of knives under his pillow.

“He’ll hurt me,” Daryl says, fists clenched up beside him. “You know he will.”

“This is _temporary_ , alright? How many times?” He says, probably a little louder than he’d intended. They both hold their silence for a moment to make sure the shower is still running. “I’m getting us _both_ outta here. Besides,” he continues, voice considerably lower. He pulls several little baggies out from the back of his top drawer, makes sure they’re sealed tight and tucks them carefully into the inside pocket of the bag. “Between me and you?” he asks, reaching deep into the drawer to pull out more plastic baggies. “ _I’m_ the punching bag. God knows I’m about ready to turn that around, but-” he makes to reach for his jacket, but freezes mid-way as he spots Daryl. “H-hey…”

Daryl’s clutching Merle’s getaway hand-gun, kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room. His tears, which won’t stop coming, splash onto its hard surface. He’s not pointing it anywhere, just holding it, clutching it like he’d clutched Merle’s hand between shaking fingers. 

“At least let me keep this,” Daryl says, voice wavering. “I’ll- I’ll kill him-”

“No you won’t,” Merle says, keeping his voice low and level. “No you won’t, Daryl.” Daryl can feel him edging closer in his peripherals as he stares down at the gun. He’s careful not to keep his finger on the trigger, even though his index twitches to, and his whole body itches to burst into the bathroom right now and _end this_. But Merle’s coming closer still- “You give that to me, little brother, alright?”- and soon he’s smothering the gun with his big hands and pulling it gently away from Daryl’s slackening grip. Once recovered, Merle throws it onto the bed, and kneels down in front of Daryl to look him square in the eyes.

“I am sure as hell not leaving so you can do it instead,” Merle warns. His eyes roam Daryl’s face, linger on his tear-filled eyes, before he averts them to the floor and squeezes Daryl’s knees with- with _shaking_ hands. Daryl thinks this is the first time he’s ever seen his brother tremble. When he speaks again, his voice is low- dangerous. “If I don’t leave now, I end up locked up- for life. You understand?” He looks back up at Daryl and there are tears in his eyes, actual tears, gleaming bright with the streetlights pouring in through the window. Daryl opens his mouth to say something, but can only sniffle and rub his face with his sleeve as the salty taste of tears, congregated in the parting of his lips, enters his mouth. So he nods vigorously instead, even though it’s _unfair_ , so unfair, this whole thing, his whole life. 

“You’re gonna hold out for a couple months,” Merle states, clearing his throat, but the waver is still audible through the forced-control. “‘Till I set myself up. You’re gonna be strong.”

Daryl keeps on nodding. 

“And you’re not gonna cry anymore, alright?” Merle says, but his voice cracks, and it’s the first time in Daryl’s _memory_ , but a tear or two escape from his steely eyes like mistakes. He immediately sniffs and rubs his face clear, but has to breathe deep and look down for a couple of moments as he composes himself. After a few moments, he continues. “Money in the sock drawer. Knife’s-”

“Under my bed,” Daryl says, parroting their code of safety again for the nth time. Merle’s eyes crinkle with a sour smile.

“God,” he says, laughing sadly. “What kinda kids are we?” 

Daryl can’t help it, he jumps up and throws his stringy arms around Merle’s neck. Merle’s hands instantly comb into his mop of unruly hair, ruffling it up and down as Daryl’s back heaves. It’s the first time they’ve hugged in forever, in forever, and Daryl’s chest burns into his throat as the reality of separation washes over him in sickening waves. They jolt when the shower stops. The words Daryl's been sobbing trail into a whisper, but keep going nonetheless. Merle, who would usually be ushering him hurriedly into bed now that _he’s_ done in the shower, just holds him tighter. Daryl’s whispers weave into Merle’s ear like a mantra as they hold onto the last grains of contact- _a couple months, a couple months, a couple months._

 

_*_

 


End file.
